


How Love Reconquered La Roja or: Isabella & Ferdinand Reborn

by guti



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Gross simplification of actual historical events, M/M, Public Blow Jobs, Spanish National Team, sex interrupted
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-30
Updated: 2016-04-30
Packaged: 2018-06-05 10:26:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6701185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/guti/pseuds/guti
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Can any of you tell me what happened in the year 1469?”</p><p>Slowly, Andrés raises his hand.  “The marriage of Isabella and Ferdinand.”</p><p>Del Bosque stares at him, then chuckles, his eyes crinkling in amusement, though it lasts but a moment.  “Ah, yes, that is what I was referring to.  The dynastic union of two great houses to form a new power.  The birth of Spain, one might say.  From that union came the new kingdom, powerful enough to drive out occupiers, strong enough to fend off invaders.  A new identity was forged with that union.  A new and glorious era dawned for this land, all because of an act of love.  Do you understand what I am implying here?  We are one family.  One team.  Act as the leaders I know you are and stop this madness!”</p><p>They nod and are excused and go their separate ways, but something in del Bosque’s words and sentiment linger with Iker as he heads toward the locker room to change.  Unification.  A powerful alliance to unite them all under one banner.  A new family, borne of an act of love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How Love Reconquered La Roja or: Isabella & Ferdinand Reborn

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ourseparatedcities](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ourseparatedcities/gifts).



> and here it is... fabsillas + marriage + shenanigans. i hope you enjoy it (i tried!!!) <3

For generations, it seemed that La Roja had been waging an internal war. Indeed, since the very first outings of the national team in the 1920’s there had been social and ethnic rivalries within the group (though in those days, the Basques and the Asturians outnumbered all others by a massive margin, and the eventual dynasties of Madrid and Barcelona barely registered as blips on the footballing map of the world.) Factor in a decade of war and another thirty years of oppression, and the nation was rife with simmering anger that often had as much to do with football as anything else. Spain itself has seemed at times to be teetering on the edge of implosion, and throughout its history, La Roja have seemed poised to do the very same. 

But this tale is not meant to be a history lesson or a political overview by any stretch. It is instead a love story, and one of a peculiar kind. La Roja will serve as the backdrop to this affair; its men will serve as the actors in this drama. This is the tale of how love conquered all— or perhaps how love conquered Spanish football, and in turn how Spanish football conquered the world.

Our story begins in Spain, as one might expect given the cast of characters. It is a spring afternoon, at the training facility of the Spanish National Team. The men have all had their breakfasts and have changed into their gear and have taken the field, only to find that despite the warnings of the manager, cooler heads have yet to prevail and the constant infighting which characterizes many Liga matches has begun to infiltrate into the realm of La Roja.

It starts during a scrimmage. There’s a poor tackle made by one of the defenders, a Catalan, against a midfielder, who isn’t Catalan. He isn’t from Madrid either, but that hardly seems to make a difference when he tumbles to the ground, knees scraping up the grass and dirt as he falls. He hisses in pain and others surround him, crying out in protest. Words are exchanged. Someone mentions a similar tackle said defender made against an opponent in a league match some weeks back. Others trot over, some urging quiet, some joining in. Voices are raised. Men are shouting over each other in a bid to be heard. Both keepers leave their boxes to pull people apart when it seems like it might come to blows. It’s a crescendo of madness and yelling, and it seems like, somehow, in this one stupid moment, seventy years of frustration might erupt into a new civil war. That is until del Bosque blows his whistle.

“Enough!” He says, in such a firm and paternal way that all the men instantly fall quiet and line up like scolded children. “That’s enough of this! Every time I call you up, this happens. I have had enough!”

A few of the men shift uncomfortably as the manager paces before them, staring them down. “I have tried everything I can think of to unite you, to instruct you, to create a family here. We come from many places, it’s true. No one is asking you to deny who you are or what you have been through. But today, we wear red. And when you play for me, you play for Spain. Have I made myself clear?”

They all nod and disperse, and the game resumes, and frankly, most of the men have forgotten the fight at all until the session is over and the manager calls a few of them over to have a little chat.

Iker falls in line with Xavi, their frowns almost mirroring each other. Andrés stands beside Xavi, alert as a schoolboy awaiting instruction from his professor.

“You three are reasonable men,” the manager begins, taking his seat at the head of the table. “You are here because you are influences on the others, and because you can be trusted to act as examples to them.”

Iker notes that Andrés’s eyes widen a little bit, like he’s honored that he’s really included in this group. Iker almost smirks, but bites it back.

“I am tired of the constant fighting. I want for us to act as a united front. We cannot possibly hope for victory abroad if we are divided here at home.”

The men stand silently, eyes shifting as they look to each other.

“Can any of you tell me what happened in the year 1469?”

Slowly, Andrés raises his hand. “The birth of Machiavelli.”

Del Bosque stares at him, then chuckles, his eyes crinkling in amusement. “Yes, yes, very good. But something else happened as well.”

Andrés raises his hand again. “The marriage of Isabella and Ferdinand.”

“Ah, yes, that is what I was referring to. The dynastic union of two great houses to form a new power. The birth of Spain, one might say.” Xavi shifts a little, perhaps slightly uncomfortable by the comparison. If del Bosque notices, he doesn’t let on. “From that union came the new kingdom, powerful enough to drive out occupiers, strong enough to fend off invaders. A new identity was forged with that union. A new and glorious era dawned for this land, all because of an act of love. Do you understand what I am implying here?”

The three of them say nothing, causing the manager to throw his hands in frustration. “We are one family. One team. Act as the leaders I know you are and stop this madness. I won’t tolerate any further conflicts. You must find a way to sort out your differences and put them behind you. So long as you play for me, you are one people, united under this one badge. Is that understood? Have I made myself clear?”

They nod and are excused and go their separate ways, but something in del Bosque’s words and sentiment linger with Iker as he heads toward the locker room to change. Unification. A powerful alliance to unite them all under one banner. A new family, borne of an act of love.

He’s hurriedly undressing and heading for the shower with these thoughts swirling in his head when the sound of laughter cuts through his thoughts.

“How is it that you manage to take six hours to get changed?”

Iker looks over to see Gerard leaning against the wall, clearly bored out of his mind.

“You can’t rush perfection, Geri.” A few feet away sits Cesc, still in his gear, smiling to himself as he takes his sweet time to unlace his boots. “I’ve still got to take a shower, you know.”

“Oh my god,” Geri sighs. Iker grabs a towel, trying his best to covertly keep an eye on the pair of them.

“Sorry that I actually care about smelling nice. Unlike some people.” Cesc kicks his shoe off, then flashes Geri a wry grin. “Go ahead, I’ll meet you in a few minutes.”

“Slowpoke,” Geri mutters as he trudges away, leaving Cesc and Iker as the last ones in the locker room. 

Quickly, Iker heads for the showers and turns on the water, hoping he’ll be done by the time Cesc barges in and complicates everything. It’s not that he dislikes Cesc. It’s actually the precise opposite of that, if he’s being honest with himself, which he is, on occasion.

He never could precisely pinpoint the moment when Cesc went from nothing to everything. One moment he was just another little brat— a charming brat to be sure, but a brat nonetheless— and the next he was featuring in some X-rated post-match shower fantasies. Of course, Iker would never act on anything like that. It’s just a little crush. It isn’t like his life revolved around Cesc Fàbregas or anything. Except in someways it almost does. He’s tried (without being to obvious about it) to demonstrate his growing affection for the kid. He has (on occasion) purposely sat near him at meals. He’s asked (a few times) if Cesc would partner with him on warm ups, then privately savored every little smile they shared and the careless way Cesc threw back his head when he laughed, stoically admired him as he’s grown from an awkward and gangly teenager into something a little more… well… _adult_. It was like something out of a movie almost. Like _Sabrina_. Or _Gigi_. One day, Cesc was just an annoyance, nothing but a bratty little kid— a talented brat, to be sure, but the obnoxious token kid brother on team made up of mostly mature and reasonable people. He was unforgettable yet easy to ignore. And since Iker was mostly consumed with babysitting Sergio half the time, it was a simple enough task to pretend he hadn’t noticed that Cesc had filled out, shoulders broadened, muscles much more defined, and so on. Or that he didn’t have that shitty haircut anymore.

But he has noticed these things. And he’s noticed the way Cesc’s face seems to light up whenever their eyes meet. He’s noticed that Cesc goes out of his way to say hello to him, to stand near him, and on one occasion to grab hold of his hand and lead him around, like he wanted to, like it was okay. Iker’s wondered about these instances, wondered if he’s read too much into things, wondered if maybe it all means nothing, since Cesc is playful and friendly with everybody he meets. He still clings to these moments, though, still thinks about them sometimes when he’s all alone.

He’s thought about kissing Cesc, thought about holding his hand. He’s thought about calling him up sometime, late at night after he’s had a few drinks, just to say hello, just to check in. He’s never done it, always been too afraid of what he might say if he ever did get Cesc on the line some late summer night. He might not be able to control his own mouth, might wind up saying something he’d truly regret. He might tell him how handsome he is, tell him just how badly he’d like to kiss him, or any number of other secrets. Iker can’t help but think that if he ever started confessing these things to Cesc, he’d be completely unable to stop.

He does his best not to think about it at all now, standing under the heat of the water until he hears footsteps approaching and echoing in the shower. He blinks open his eyes and sees Cesc is there now too, sauntering in like he’s the king and the showers are his domain. Cesc looks back at him, smirking a little.

“Did I scare you, Iker?” He asks, switching on one of the faucets. 

Iker freezes, his cheeks suddenly burning. “No, not at all. I just forgot you were still here.”

Cesc stares at him a moment, his smile slowly fading as he steps under the water, like maybe, somehow, his feelings just got hurt. Iker tries not to read into it too much as he pours some shampoo into his palm and starts to wash his hair.

“Hey, Iker?”

He opens his eyes again and looks over to Cesc. Cesc is watching him, almost curious in his expression, like Iker is a puzzle he’s desperate to figure out.

His eyes are shining, gleaming with mischief, and Iker is caught in Cesc’s spell and finds that he’s smiling in spite of himself. He can’t help it, he just _has_ to smile whenever he sees Cesc. “Hm?”

“Oh, nothing. I was just thinking.” Cesc turns his back to Iker as he gets some shampoo for himself.

“Thinking about what?” Iker asks, admiring Cesc’s ass in the most subtle way he can manage before Cesc glances back over his shoulder at him. 

“I was thinking maybe you’d like to come out with us tonight. Me and Geri, I mean.” Cesc bites his lip a little, smiling again. “We’re just going to grab a quick bite, nothing fancy. And we won’t be out late or anything, I just thought…”

Truthfully, Iker hasn’t heard a word Cesc has said. His mind has started to wander, first to dark places, to those private, scandalous fantasies he’s harbored and tried to silence for years. He’s imagining how the tile might feel if he pressed Cesc up against it. He can almost feel his fingers drag over Cesc’s skin as he touches him, kisses him, possess him. He’s thinking of how warm Cesc’s breath would feel on his neck, dark eyes fluttering shut, lips swollen from being kissed, moaning, crying, whispering Iker’s name.

But just as quickly as these images appear, they’re gone, replaced by something else. He suddenly hears another voice in his mind, not Cesc’s but del Bosque’s heavy handed and ineloquent allusions to historical events. For whatever reason, Iker thinks of a wedding. More specifically, that the problems they’ve been having as a team might be solved if there were a marriage between himself and… Cesc.

Cesc watches him patiently, waiting for him to say something. Iker instead can only stand there, blushing like a complete fool. He finally smiles, feeling almost mortified with himself, only to find that Cesc is smiling right back at him. “I…”

“It’s okay if you don't want to come. I promise, I won’t hold it against you or anything.” Cesc shrugs a little, then starts to work his soap into a thick lather. “I know Geri isn’t exactly your cup of tea.”

“It’s not that,” Iker protests quickly. “I would love to go out with you. But tonight’s no good. Maybe I can get a rain check?”

Cesc nods eagerly. “Sure thing. Another time, then.”

But another time doesn't come quickly, and Iker does his best not to think about any of it. Not about Cesc in the shower, not about Cesc lying beneath him in bed, not about the idea of marrying Cesc and claiming his heart, body, and mind forever— or at least he tries to cut back on indulging those sorts of thoughts. Repression, he knows, isn’t healthy, but it’s also unhealthy to be lusting after someone as silly and unattainable as Cesc Fàbregas. It’s not useful thinking, so he buries the thoughts and does everything he can to forget about Cesc. He works out a bit more. He very purposely doesn't check for posts from Cesc on social media. He even goes out of his way not to read articles in the news that feature Cesc’s name, all for the sake of his own sanity.

It’s not until the next call up that he even allows himself the luxury of really remembering that he might be attracted to Cesc at all. He’s sitting next to Sergio at breakfast, pushing some food around his plate when he hears himself speaking.

“Have you ever thought of getting married?”

Sergio chokes on his juice, eyes comically large. “What? To you?”

Iker scowls at him, internally kicking himself. He shouldn't have even brought it up, there’s no excuse for this lapse of judgment. “No, not to me. I meant in general. Have you ever considered getting married someday?”

Sergio gives a noncommittal shrug, which Iker supposes it about par for the course when it comes to him. Then his eyes wander across the room and settle on Cesc, holding court with his friends, laughter high above the din.

Cesc looks good, somehow even better than he did the last time Iker saw him. In the shower. Alone. Naked. Soaking wet. Iker swallows hard and tries to not to remember it. Unfortunately he swallows so hard he inhales all wrong and starts to cough, and before he realizes it, everyone’s staring straight at him.

“What’s the matter with you, Iker?” Sergio asks, his mouth full of food, concerned enough to comment but not concerned enough about his _best friend’s_ condition to offer any assistance. “You’re acting funny today.”

“No I’m not,” Iker coughs violently, tears welling up in his eyes, cheeks pink. He glances up just in time to make eye contact with Cesc across the room and immediately starts hacking anew. Cesc’s eyebrows are raised in worry, but luckily Iker gets himself under control again.

And just in time too. It’s off to practice once more, and just as the last time, tempers flare almost instantly. Someone commits a foul, someone else takes offense, a third someone tells them off, a fourth someone points out the the first someone’s mother’s occupation is unsavory, the third someone notes that the fourth someone’s bedroom habits are of particular note, a fifth someone begins to laugh, a sixth someone pokes the second someone in the chest, the fifth someone takes exception to that and shoves the sixth someone, a seventh someone rushes over to try to break it up, an eighth someone starts screaming for some reason, a ninth someone is on the verge of tears, and all the while Iker stands at his spot between the sticks, looking on in utter horror. He wonders if he should go over and try to break it up, wonders if any of them would listen to him anyway. He’s about to do the captainy thing and at least try when a tenth someone sneaks up behind him and slings an arm over his shoulder.

“And they say _I’m_ the child. Ha!” Cesc shakes his head, snorting proudly.

Iker’s whole body goes tense for a moment before he relaxes again, finding it oddly comforting to be in Cesc’s embrace. “No, you’re not a child,” he says, daring to put his arm around Cesc’s middle, savoring the closeness, even if it will only last for a minute on the pitch. Something is better than nothing, he supposes. He doesn’t even remember that he’s been trying to forget about Cesc this whole time. He’s just so grateful. “You quit being a child a long time ago.”

“Did you just notice this, or…?”

“No, I…” Iker swallows, suddenly very aware of the lack of space between them, of the strange newfound intimacy they’re having on the field, in front of the world. He’s also keenly aware of the lack of privacy, and the fact that he could swear Cesc is making eyes at him.

Cesc’s eyebrows go up and he opens his mouth like he’s going to speak, or worse, _flirt_ with Iker, but he’s cut off before he can utter a word.

“Casillas! Fàbregas!” The both hop away from each other and turn their heads to see del Bosque looming a few yards away, a disapproving scowl on his face. He beckons them over. “A word.”

The pair obediently trot to his side. Across the pitch, the rest of the men are still squabbling.

“Casillas,” del Bosque begins. “Do you remember the talk we had last time?” Iker nods. “I spoke of unification, identity, an end to the discord which has plagued our men for far too long. I was hopeful that you might be trusted to put an end to this chaos and unite us for a common cause. Sadly, I am beginning to think I was mistaken.”

The color drains from Iker’s face and he fumbles with his words, “I… I have—”

“He’s been trying, Míster,” Cesc interjects, a certain authority to his voice that catches Iker off guard. Del Bosque turns his gaze to the young Catalan. Emboldened, Cesc continues. “We’ve both been working on it.”

Del Bosque’s face scrunches up, clearly confused. He looks back to Iker. “You have asked Fàbregas to assist you?”

Iker manages a nod. “Yes, sir.”

The old man nods also, slowly, as if he is pondering the entire premise. “That is progress in itself, I suppose. Leading by example, reaching out across the aisle, in a sense. But it’s taken entirely too long to stop this nonsense. I am tired of these ridiculous conflicts. I want it done, do you understand? Find a way to put an end to it, otherwise there will be serious consequences.”

Iker and Cesc nod in unison and del Bosque turns away from them, blowing his whistle and effectively ending the fight for the time being. Once he’s well out of earshot, Cesc, looks to Iker, cocking an eyebrow.

“What was that all about anyway?”

Iker fidgets with his gloves, trying to play it cool. “He gave us a lecture about Ferdinand and Isabella’s wedding uniting the peninsula and unifying the people and…” Their eyes meet, just for a split second, and he loses his train of thought.

“Ferdinand and Isabella?” Cesc asks with a laugh. 

“Yeah,” Iker says, pulling himself together, managing to look mostly casual again. “I don't know what del Bosque expects me to do to bring everyone together. It’s not like I can arrange some sort of dynastic marriage to shut everyone up.”

“I’m sure you could—”

Del Bosque blows his whistle again and the pair of them dutifully separate and rejoin the group, and for the rest of practice, Iker wonders to himself what on earth he could possibly do to stop the infighting and bring everyone together.

He’s taking off his shoes afterward when Sergio approaches him, hands on his hips, a sly smirk on his lips. 

“You’re in too good a mood, Sergio,” Iker observes, willing to indulge him for the moment. “What’s the matter? What trouble have you caused? What are you planning?”

“I haven’t done anything,” Sergio says, dropping to a crouch before him, placing his hands on Iker’s knees. “The better question is, what are _you_ planning?”

Iker rolls his eyes. “What are you going on about?”

Sergio gives him a conspiratorial grin. “I saw you and little what’s his name earlier. We all did.”

Iker’s cool exterior falters for just a moment. “You mean Cesc.”

“Of course I mean _Cesc_. What are you up to with him?”

“I’m allowed to have friends, Sergio.”

“He was hanging all over you.”

“You hang all over me all the time.”

“Yes, but it’s different with me,” Sergio snorts. “People expect it with me.”

Iker rolls his eyes again, “Don’t be so jealous, nene. It’s unbecoming.”

And with that, he stands, forcing Sergio onto his butt on the floor, and proceeds to undress the rest of the way.

“If you’re up to something, Iker, I swear, I’ll be the first to know!” 

“I’m not up to anything, Sergio. Just let it go.” 

But maybe he _is_ up to something. He questions himself as he showers, wonders if maybe he’s been a little too obvious with Cesc, wonders what it might mean if he were to give into this lingering temptation and just kiss the man. God knows he’s been awfully patient about the whole ordeal, ignored the growing feelings of lust that have been building over the last couple of years. It’s not just lust though, if he’s real with himself, which he is sometimes. It’s not purely physical. He genuinely _likes_ Cesc, enjoys his company, likes talking to him, even when he’s being infuriatingly obnoxious, even when he teases him. He cares about Cesc, worries over him when he’s injured, feels excited for him when he does well. If he’s really and truly honest with himself, he’s carried a torch for him for a long time and purposely tried to ignore his feelings, _and_ any indications that it might be mutual. He’s never seriously entertained that thought, and why should he? He’s small potatoes in the grand scheme of things. He’s a distant star in the constellation of Cesc’s life. 

Iker sighs and starts to shampoo his hair, jumping in surprise when he felt someone touch his shoulder. He blinks and wipes away the suds, finding that he’s once again face to face with Cesc.

“I’m sorry, Iker,” Cesc says with a little laugh. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You didn’t,” Iker sputters, trying to will himself not to look down and openly gawk at Cesc’s nudity, or remember his own. “Just wasn’t expecting you.”

Cesc giggles and turns on the faucet next to his. “That’s good. You know, I was just thinking about something.”

Iker brushes his hair out of his faces and watches him as covertly as he can manage. “Yeah?

Cesc nods, stepping under the spray. “Uh-huh. I was thinking maybe we could be an example to the rest of the guys.” Iker stays quiet, just watches him. “I mean, we get along just fine, don’t we? I like you and you like me, and we’re pretty good friends, I’d say. And you’re the epitome of Madridista, aren’t you? And you cannot get much more Catalan than me, with a name like Francesc Fàbregas, oi?” 

Cesc laughs brightly, looking back at Iker, and in that moment, Iker is absolutely certain that he knows where Cesc is going with this. They could be like a modern day Isabella and Ferdinand, uniting their rival kingdoms under one banner, as one people, banded together as a family to face a common foe. Iker’s heart skips a beat, and before he can second guess any of it, he hears himself speak. “Marry me.”

Cesc’s smile fades in an instant. “Wh-what?”

Iker’s heart isn't skipping anymore. Instead, it’s completely stopped. “Um, er…”

“Did you just ask me to—”

“I… I thought…”

Cesc’s expression is somber, as serious as Iker’s ever seen him, and he steps out of the water, approaches Iker so that they’re just a few inches apart. “I can’t tell if you mean it or if you’re just teasing me.”

Iker takes in a deep breath, cursing himself for misreading everything. He’s normally so cool, how could he have blown it all in one fell swoop? But his eyes meet Cesc’s, and in his gaze he sees something searching, longing, hopeful. And that part of him he’s been trying to silence for so long bursts through and refuses to be quiet any longer. “I tease you about a lot of things, Cesc. But not about that. Never about that.”

“Oh,” Cesc says, and he’s smiling again, leaning into him slightly. “Well, in that case, don’t you think you should take me out first before asking me to marry you?”

Iker lets out the breath he’s holding and leans in too, their shoulders brushing together, water bouncing off slick skin, both of them naked, unashamed, and quite obviously turned on. “I’ll buy you dinner for formality’s sake, if that’s what it’ll take for you to say yes.”

Cesc raises an eyebrow and before Iker can blink, Cesc’s lips are pressed to him, their bodies melting together under the warm spray, arms around each other, hands exploring. “I’ve been waiting for you to make a move for years, Iker,” Cesc pants into the skin below his ear. “You could’ve asked me three years ago, and I’d have said yes.”

He almost growls at that, fingers tangled in Cesc’s hair. “You don’t mean that.”

“I’ve been waiting for you,” Cesc whispers, and Iker forgets the rest of the world in that moment, forgets everything that's ever troubled him, forgets that there's more to the world then just him and Cesc. When he kisses Cesc, it's like a part of him that's been missing had been found again, like every lonely corner of his soul is illuminated. He feels completely whole and alive. 

When they part, he finds himself wanting more, needing more, needing everything Cesc is willing to give him. He doesn’t think about the men just outside the showers, lingering around in the locker room. He doesn’t think about del Bosque and his convoluted allegories or strange methods of team building. He doesn’t even think about football at all, not about Spain or Barcelona or Arsenal or Madrid. It’s just him and Cesc, like it could just be the two of them forever, drenched and naked and totally unafraid.

Iker closes his eyes, absorbed in the heat of Cesc’s body against his, lost in the warmth of the water cascading down around them, and he drops to his knees, planting kisses along Cesc’s stomach and hips, savoring the taste of his skin. Encouraged, he takes Cesc’s cock into his mouth, revelling in the needy noises Cesc makes in response. 

“Don’t stop,” Cesc commands, and Iker doesn’t.

Or he wouldn’t, if not for the interruption. They don’t notice at first, they’re so consumed by each other and the moment that neither of them hears the footsteps approaching over the sound of the shower. But their intimate exchange comes to a screeching halt when someone lets out a gasp of horror and they both turn quickly to see Sergio and Fernando gaping at them, fully clothed and impotently flailing.

“What the fuck is this?!” Sergio squawks, pointing at them, eyes the size of frisbees. “What the fuck!”

Iker, still on his knees, just sits there, totally dumbfounded. Cesc skitters back a few paces, in some sort of lame attempt to hide his erection, and maybe to preserve what little dignity he has left.

Fernando stands there too, a horrified half-smile on his face, like he’s either just seen the best thing ever or the most awful damaging sight in all of existence.

“What the fuck is this?!” Sergio demands again, taking a step forward, wagging an accusatory finger at Iker. “You _were_ up to something this whole time! I fucking knew it!”

“Knew what?” A voice calls from around the corner. Iker recognizes it right away as Xavi. The color drains from his face and a sense of dread sets in.

“Shut the hell up, would you!” Iker hisses, scrambling up to his feet, looking around frantically for a towel or something within arm’s reach to shield himself.

“Oh shit…” Cesc murmurs, realizing all hope is now lost and there’s no chance for a safe escape.

“What’s going on in here?” Xavi asks, his voice getting closer.

“Nothing!” Cesc cries out, panic seeping into his voice. “Everything’s fine, Xavi!”

“Iker was sucking Cesc off in the shower!” Sergio yells defiantly. Fernando starts to snicker. Xavi lets out an undignified sound. And it’s then that there seems to be a stampede of people running toward the shower to come see.

The resulting scene is one of absolute chaos, with a dozen giddy and titillated men elbowing in to gawk and snicker and whoop and cheer. Cesc’s cheeks have gone crimson; Iker’s are even worse. But something comes of it, something wholly unexpected. Once everyone’s calmed down and the teasing has ended, and those present have caught their breath, something has changed in the dynamic. Sure, they’ve had their fun with it, all gotten a proper laugh at how stupid they were, fooling around in the shower with half the squad a few feet away, but once the laughter dies, it’s almost as if there’s been a tonal shift amongst them. It’s as though they were _united_ by the blowjob (interrupted or not), as though whatever long held rivalries and trivial feuds had driven a spike between them didn’t matter anymore, so long as they could all laugh about the time Iker went down on Cesc in the shower. The happy couple are dragged off by their respective sets of friends to be teased and chided (and in a few cases, congratulated) in private, but in all the whole group is left feeling different than they had earlier that day, or indeed ever before.

And it doesn't end there, oh no. This sense of calm, this newfound camaraderie carries over into dinner, and the next day into breakfast, and all throughout the week, a happy sort of brotherhood comes over the squad, one that del Bosque has never seen before. He pulls Iker and Cesc aside and congratulates them for whatever they’ve done to put an end to the fighting.

“You’ve united our men,” he says, proudly patting their shoulders. “I don’t know what it is that you two did, but we all owe you a debt of gratitude for your service.”

Cesc grins like a madman. Iker manages to give a courteous nod, and when they’re dismissed, the two of them steal away, finally with a moment alone in the dugout, just to themselves.

“That was awkward,” Cesc chirps, still grinning ear to ear. He sinks into one of the seats. 

Iker drops down beside him, a bit hesitant. “Yes, well.” He plays with his gloves, grateful for something to do with his hands, nervous for a million different reasons. Cautiously, he looks around them, noting that the coast is actually clear this time. “Listen, I was thinking…”

“That you never took me out to dinner?” Cesc asks, looking bright and hopeful as he ever did. Iker senses the anxiety in him though, knows well enough that Cesc is trying to be brave.

He feels the same way, really. Scared that what happened between them in the shower was some fluke, terrified that whatever shot they had at any sort of relationship came crashing down around them the moment Sergio and Fernando decided to burst in and spoil everything. Maybe that had been it for them— one chance to make it work, lost now to eternity because they chose to fuck in the showers and not in the safety of a hotel room. Joke’s on them, perhaps. Joke’s on them that their tryst interrupted would serve as the catalyst to bring together warring parties, unite the squad under a common cause: the mockery of them both. It’s so unfair that it would end up this way, so unfair that part of Iker just wants to sulk.

“You still want to take me out, don’t you?” Cesc asks, a bit quieter this time, dark eyes so wide and imploring, Iker loses himself in them all over again.

Of course he does. “Of course I do,” he says, gloves falling to the floor forgotten. “I asked you to marry me, didn’t I?”

“You did, yes.” Cesc lets out an airy laugh and scoots across the seat to get closer to him, kicking his legs up over Iker’s thighs, arms slung loosely around his neck. “Well in that case, how about we order up some room service instead. I think we’d have a much better time staying in, don’t you think?”

Iker can’t really say no to that. He can’t say no to kissing Cesc either, and honestly he doesn’t care if anyone walks in on them this time. 

And so there they were, together in the dugout, one man of La Masia and one of La Fábrica, entwined and entangled and on the cusp of greatness, with their friends united too, with rivalry and conflict left behind them. Because, it seemed, del Bosque was right about one thing after all: a pair in love really could unite a peninsula and bring about a new era of unity for them all.


End file.
